


Invisible Soldier

by buckybleeds



Series: Tales from the Discard Pile [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A bit of the old ultraviolence, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: TALES FROM THE DISCARD PILEThe Asset is part of a lovely party.[Brock prepares the Soldier for use and considers aesthetics, Pierce bloviates, then there is rather a lot of blood]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Hydra Agents
Series: Tales from the Discard Pile [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709350
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Invisible Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> TALES FROM THE DISCARD PILE
> 
> This is a discarded fic and there is no guarantee it will ever be completed HOWEVER if you're super into it subscribe to the fic and if it ever updates you'll be the first to know. 
> 
> This series is full of snippets and ficlets that I started on and lost interest in but still consider workable but not worth the effort unless someone wants to read them - if there's a fic that you're EXTREMELY VERY INTO and would like to see finished drop a comment that says as much and maybe it'll happen someday. 
> 
> AGAIN, I make no promises. But you can try and it turns out that I thrive on attention and flattery so hey who knows it might happen.

The Asset laid on its back on the exam table and shivered. 

Brock hummed and pressed another finger into it. He loved the way it behaved for him when it wasn't scared yet, how soft its eyes were above its muzzle, the trusting way its legs fell open and it curled its stomach to offer itself to him. 

The only thing that broke the illusion was a fine tremor running through its limbs and the way its hands were clenching around the edges of the table hard enough to crimp the steel. 

He reached up his free hand to pet at its greasy hair. Relaxing its body for use came before all the spit and polish that would be applied to it for this mission. 

"It's okay, sweetheart. You're gonna be such a good boy and we're gonna take such good care of our little toy soldier. You'll see, honey."

He pressed his little finger against its slick rim and pushed it in alongside the rest before tenting out his fingers and rotating his wrist. The Asset's shivering intensified. 

"Just be good, honey. This won't hurt," he lied, and kept his focus on his work.

***

The Asset was scared of all its handlers, it couldn't remember why this one in particular made it feel nauseous and small and like it needed to become smaller and invisible and so silent that it could fall through a crack in the floor and hide away forever, a mouse clever enough to keep itself secret by never scratching at the walls. 

The handler was crooning soft words at it, touching it kindly enough that it could feel its body swelling and pulsing in response. It felt good. It felt terrified. It stayed still and relaxed itself for its handler, letting his hands trace its ruined flesh and pry open its hole until it was soft and slack and nearly asleep in response to the kind, gentle motions. 

It became distant from itself, the world started to sparkle. It felt hands and the cool, blunt touch of metal and it tasted steel and licorice and knew only the dark.

***

Someday, if he survived all the infighting, backstabbing, and general field hazards of working for a shadowy organization bent on world domination long enough to grow up and be a real boy, Brock wanted the kind of power that allowed him to give his input on the aesthetics of Evil Galas because what he was looking at was kinky, and it was compelling, but mostly it was tacky. 

See, the thing is, he's seen the Asset in action. And yeah, Brock enjoys cracking it open and taking it for a ride, and yes, part of that is that it is beautiful and has a mouth that could suck the stripes off a flag, but a huge part of why Brock loves being its handler and getting closer to it is that he gets to see the Asset morph from a dead-eyed kitten into a balletic food processor of sex and death that walks like it's on a runway while dripping gore in its tracks.

And this, this was a perversion of that. 

It wore a parody of its tactical gear. A black lace bodysuit covered it from neck to ankles except for cutaway sections that exposed its chest, left arm, and everything between its legs. This was held in place by a black nylon tactical vest that was cinched around its waist as strictly as a corset. The belt at the bottom of the vest connected to two web thigh holsters that conveniently featured D-rings on the backs of its thighs, which made easy attachment points to connect to the thick cuffs wrapped around the ankles of its combat boots. Its arms were given similar treatment, black nylon and silver hardware connecting it to itself. 

It was posed kneeling, its ankles connected to the backs of its thighs, hands pinned palm-up to the front. Its hair had been intricately braided and the end of the braid tied onto its vest, pulling its head back sharply so that its face pointed directly at the ceiling. Its mouth was covered by a starched lace version of its muzzle with a wide steel ring that forced its teeth safely open and the sooty kohl it sometimes wore around its eyes was placed more carefully and smudged more artfully. 

It had been washed and waxed and buffed until its pale skin and dark hair glowed. All of which was simply background for the two main features of this display: first, that it was covered and surrounded by roses that were such a dark red that they looked nearly black in the dim lights - roses rested in its upturned palms and were placed in the pouches of its tac vest, some were woven into its braid and more were tucked into the straps of its vest and the holsters around its thighs; and second, the hole in its muzzle was filled by a fat beeswax candle that terminated a foot higher than its head and its ass was stuffed with a large plug of matching material that was mounted to the platform that the whole display was set upon, making it look like the Asset was spitted and pinned on a thick white spear. It was surrounded by a circle of similar candles, making it look like some kind of perverse chandelier.

Kinky, compelling, tacky. 

It immediately attracted the gaze of everyone who entered the hall, but Brock figured that was what a centerpiece was supposed to do. Pierce looked pleased with the presentation and this was his show so that was all that mattered. The Secretary was at the center of the head table, sitting where the groom would if this was a wedding, and looked over the beautifully dressed monsters at the other tables with a fond, avuncular affection. 

There were maybe fifty guests, all carefully selected by their regional HYDRA cells. There were scientists and diplomats in the room rubbing shoulders with barons and soldiers. 

STRIKE was here for security, Brock was here to make sure the Asset didn't snap and kill anyone it wasn't supposed to. 

Dinner was winding down, the sound of conversations popping up grew louder as coffee was served until suddenly all the lights went out except for a single spotlight that illuminated the Asset - the candle in its mouth lit itself through some technical trickery as the candles around it on the table did the same. The spotlight faded and the Asset was alone in the room, bathed in a warm, flickering glow and floating in a sea of darkness. 

"Our role here," Pierce's deep, soothing voice filled the room, "is, and always has been, to serve. We are meek, we are humble, and we are quiet in the work we do in the world."

A hummed chorus of assent rose from the enraptured crowd. All the faces Brock could see in the candlelight were fixed on the Asset.

"We are clever, we are brave and bright, but humility, silence, invisibility - these are the gifts, alongside patience and sacrifice, that allow us to function. The world cannot see us as the heroes we are because we are hidden in plain sight. It cannot hear us when we say 'Hail Hydra' because we work in whispers. Hail Hydra," he said.

"Hail Hydra," the room boomed back. 

"I am very disappointed in you," Pierce's voice sounded light, and was accompanied by a chuckle. 

Brock managed to have his goggles on before the strobe started.

***

The Asset stood in a rain of roses, flowers falling away as it used its left hand to remove the candle from its mouth and drive through the beeswax shell to activate the grenade inside. It made short work of that and then the other dozen grenade candles, tossing them into a screaming crowd of tuxedos and chiffon until the only light remaining was the blinding strobe that Brock's goggles barely compensated for. 

The flashing light didn't seem to bother the Asset, which moved like a nightmare, using the split seconds of darkness to glide through the room at inhuman speeds, dropping a trail of roses as it pulled guns from their holsters and drew an endless stream of knives from the pouches on its chest. 

STRIKE blocked the exits of the room, herding the guests into a panicked churn on the open dance floor where the Asset mowed through them like a scalpel cutting through silk. It was over in less than three minutes. Zero casualties, all targets eliminated. 

The lights in the ballroom came back on and at first Brock couldn't process all that red as blood because, Christ, that was a lot of blood. 

Then he couldn't process because he saw the Asset stalking toward him, still dressed in black lace and tactical nylon, soaked in blood, with one perfect rose still embedded in its intricately braided hair. It had blood on its hands and blood on its teeth and its eyes were as blue and empty as a summer sky. 

It knelt at Brock's feet, and in spite of the blood Brock felt himself swelling in his shorts while he removed the pretty, gory lace mask. The Secretary reentered the ballroom and clapped sharply. The strobe lights flickered and died and warm, bright light replaced them. A technician with a shoulder-mounted camera and a large antenna pack trailed behind Pierce as he strolled through and surveyed the carnage. 

"Soldier," he called, standing over a heap of crumpled mint taffeta, "who is this woman?"

The Soldier didn't rise, but did look where Pierce was pointing. 

"Andrea Glück."

"Why did you kill her?"

"She provoked an Interpol investigation into her personal finances due to an unusual pattern of investments and stock sales."

"What was her job?"

"Finance manager for HYDRA, based in Munich."

Pierce walked to a corpse in a beautiful black tuxedo with a crimson shawl collar. 

"Who was this?"

"Diego Reynaldo."

"His job?"

"Spanish bullfighter. Bilbao intelligence division, he gathered material to blackmail the royal family."

"Why did you kill him?"

"He impregnated a fourteen year old duchess and was about to be arrested."

The cameraman panned over a dozen bodies and came to rest on the polished toe of the Secretary's shoe as it tapped the remaining cheek of a half-missing face. 

"Michael Glenn, Seattle programmer. Selling proprietary software on the black market."

Pierce smeared a footprint on a bright white cummerbund.

"Lance Corporal Brian Jeffries, DC, took out a hit on his wife."

The Secretary picked his way through the bloodbath until he came to the slim, delicate body of a beautiful young blonde woman in a demure, baby pink gown. He cradled her broken neck in one broad hand and lifted her face so the camera and the Soldier could both see it.

"Samantha Pierce. Geneticist with the Virginia office. Held twelve scientific patents. Was about to go to trial after killing a single mother during her third DUI." The Soldier paused. "She was your only sister's only daughter."

Pierce straightened his back and let his niece's body fall to the ground with a thick, wet thud. He pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat and silently cleaned the touch of her off his fingers. He spoke to the camera only once he'd folded the soiled cloth and tucked it away. 

"For nearly a century HYDRA has worked from the shadows to bring safety and security to our chaotic world. We have raised empires and felled dynasties. We work every day for a brighter future, a better tomorrow."

Pierce stepped back from the camera and spread his arms, encompassing the blood congealing on the marble floor. 

"But our work can only be accomplished it'd we stay in the shadows, can only be completed if we remain invisible."

He gestured at the carnage in disgust. 

"If you want to make a spectacle of yourself take a good, long look."

The cameraman spun in a slow circle, lowering the lens to keep all the heaped bodies in his shot. When he landed back on Pierce he slowly reversed the angle and stepped closer, tracking up his body until the Secretary's face was the only thing in the frame. 

"Hail HYDRA," Pierce growled, and that was that.


End file.
